‘Not if you have a usable translation. Without the translation you’d have a five-letter word that was utterly unintelligible. Without the translation, it’d be pure nonsense. But with the translation it adds another layer of encoding, that’s all. Both individuals have to have both books to hand, of course, in order to decode the message. But it’s a stroke of genius, actually.’
‘Can such a code be broken?’ Jaeger ventured.
Jenkinson shook his head. ‘Very difficult. Next to impossible. That’s the beauty of it. You need to know which book the two users are referring to, and in this case have access to the translation too. Makes it almost impossible to crack – that’s unless you capture the two old men and beat and torture it out of them.’
Jaeger eyed the archivist curiously. ‘That’s a dark mind you have there, Mr Jenkinson. But thanks for the insight. And keep digging for any trace of our mystery flight.’ He scribbled his email and phone details on the bottom of Jenkinson’s envelope. ‘I’d be keen to hear of anything you turn up.’
‘Absolutely.’ Jenkinson smiled. ‘Glad to see someone’s taking a real interest at last.’
17
‘Two-way mirror,’ Carson announced. ‘We use it for assessing which characters will appeal most to TV audiences. Or at least, that’s the bullshit theory.’
He and Jaeger were standing in a darkened room, before what appeared to be a long glass wall. On the far side was a group of individuals enjoying a cold lunch buffet, apparently oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. Carson’s patter had changed markedly. He’d slipped back into what he clearly figured was buddy-buddy soldier speak.
‘You wouldn’t believe the crap I’ve been put through pulling this team together,’ he continued. ‘TV executives – they wanted freaks, glamour and eye candy. Top ratings material, as they call it. I wanted tough ex-military types who’d stand at least a chance of making it through. That little lot,’ he jerked a thumb at the glass, ‘is the bloody result.’
Jaeger indicated the trays of sandwiches that the expedition team was busy tucking into. ‘So why don’t they get the revolting—’
‘The sushi? Perks of being management,’ Carson cut in darkly. ‘We get the obscenely expensive, indigestible food. So, I’ll talk you around the team, and then I suggest you go say a few cute ’n’ cuddly words of introduction.’
He pointed out a figure through the glass. ‘Big guy. Joe James. New Zealander. Former Kiwi SAS. Lost one too many of his mates along the way; plagued by PTSD, hence the long greasy hair and Osama Bin Laden beard. Looks like a biker crossed with a homeless bum, which the TV execs love, of course. But never judge a book by its cover: he remains a tough and resourceful operator, or so I’m told.
‘Two: chiselled black dude. Lewis Alonzo. Former US Navy SEAL. Works as a bodyguard these days, but misses the adrenalin rush of combat. Hence volunteering for the present fun and games. About the most reliable bloke you’ve got. Don’t whatever you do lose him in the Amazon. As the Yank made clear in the meeting, they’re footing the lion’s share of the bill. They need Americans on the team – preferably ones performing some world-beating heroics – to play to a US audience.
‘Three: the French broadcaster Canal Plus has stumped up a sizeable chunk of the budget, hence the elegant-looking French bird. Sylvie Clermont. Served with the unfortunately named CRAP – Commandos de Recherche et d’Action en Profondeur. Think SAS minus the Special. She wore Dior all through the trials in the Scottish hills. Looked bloody good in it, too. Probably doesn’t wash much – French birds tend not to – but I figure I could forgive her that…’
Carson laughed at his own joke. He glanced at Jaeger, as if expecting him to share in the humour. He didn’t get even a hint of a smile in return. He shrugged – undeterred; skin as thick as a hippo – and ploughed on.
‘Four: Asian-looking guy. Hiro Kamishi – Japanese broadcaster NHK’s choice. Hiro by name, hero by nature. A former captain in the Tokusha Sakusen Gun – the Japanese special forces. Fancies himself as a modern-day samurai; a warrior of the higher path. He’s made a name for himself as a war historian, largely due to Japanese guilt over the Second World War. Personally I don’t know what there is to feel guilty about. We won. They lost. The end.’
Carson laughed at his own joke again, no longer bothering to seek endorsement from Jaeger. The message was clear: I run the show around here, and I’ll say what I bloody well like and like what I bloody well say.
‘Five and six: couple of long-haired dudes barely started shaving – Mike Dale and Stefan Kral. An Aussie and a Slovak. They’re Wild Dog Media’s camera crew, so you don’t need to worry much about them. They’ve worked in remote and conflict-prone areas and should be able to look after themselves. The upside: they’ll be behind the cameras filming the show, so should keep well out of your way. The downside: you’re almost old enough to be their father.’
Carson guffawed. It was clearly his favourite joke of the show so far.
‘Seven. Peter Krakow. Polish–German. ZDF, the German broadcaster’s esteemed choice. Krakow is former GSG9. What else is there to say? He’s a Kraut. He’s got the character of a woodlouse and the sense of humour of a worm. He’s a dour, down-the-line Teutonic type. If that aircraft is German, you can rely on Krakow to keep reminding you.
‘Eight: hot-looking Latino chick. Leticia Santos – foisted on us by the tree-hugger brigade. Brazilian chica now working for FUNAI, the Brazilian government’s Amazon Indian agency. She was formerly with the B-SOB – your buddy Colonel Evandro’s Brazilian special forces. She’s got a new mantra now: hug an Amazonian Indian. But she’s the nearest the colonel has to having a man on your mission.
‘And finally, number nine – come in, please, your time is up! If only. Yeah, I’m talking about the striking-looking blonde. Smokin’ hot. Irina Narov. Former officer in Russia’s Spetsnaz, now taken up American citizenship and lives in New York. Narov is ice cool. Highly capable. Decidedly easy on the eye. Oh yeah, and never to be found without her knife. Or crossed. Needless to say, the TV execs love her. They figure Narov will blow the ratings through the roof.’
Carson turned to Jaeger. ‘With your good self – makes a round ten. So, what d’you reckon? The team to die for, eh?’
Jaeger shrugged. ‘I presume it’s too late to change my mind and pull out?’
Carson’s smile split his face from ear to ear. ‘Trust me, you’re going to love it. You’re the perfect character to mould them into one cohesive team.’
Jaeger snorted. ‘There is one thing. I’d like Raff as my 2iC. Safe pair of hands to backstop operations and help me handle that bunch of crazies.’
Carson shook his head. ‘No can do, I’m afraid. As a soldier’s soldier there’s no one better. But he’s hardly the most erudite of individuals, nor easy on the eye. The TV execs are dead set on the team as assembled. That means you’ve got the delightful Irina Narov – the honorary American – as your right-hand… well, woman.’
‘It’s a deal-breaker?’
‘It is. It’s the blonde bombshell or bust.’
Jaeger turned back to the two-way mirror, eyeing Irina Narov for a long moment. Oddly, he had the sensation that she knew he was watching – as if she could feel his gaze burning through the glass.
18
It was first light.
Approaching time to fire up the Lockheed Martin C-130J Super Hercules and take to the skies. The rest of Jaeger’s team was locked and loaded. Good to go. They were strapped into the aircraft’s fold-down canvas seats, plugged into the on-board oxygen-breathing system, and psyching themselves up for what they knew was coming – the plunge from the roof of the world into the unknown.